


Past Time

by mautadite



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cortez and Vega share a meal at midnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



> Everyone’s favourite married couple who aren’t married (yet!). Thanks for the prompts, and please enjoy. :)

It’s a quiet ride up to the crew deck. It always is; most days, by the time Steve looks up from the Kodiak or one of his many stations, it’s deep into the late shift at night, and he makes the elevator ride in solitude and in silence before crashing into his bunk. Over the past few months, he’s had to add the possibility of being hassled or dragged bodily away from his work into the equation, either by Shepard or Vega. For all that he’s teased about being mother-hennish, those two outstrip him by far.

Tonight, it’s Vega. Shep and Williams are out enjoying the dregs of their shore leave on the Strip, painting the town red or blue or whatever colour they put their minds to. Shep extended an invitation to them to make it a double date, but Steve knows better by now. It’s an adventure in itself to stand close to the Commander while she does what she generously terms dancing, and the LC gets giggly and handsy with Shepard after a couple drinks. All in all, they’re better left to their own devices.

He’d expected to have a lonely night of it, working out a few kinks in the Kodiak’s hull, but then Vega had returned early from his trip to the wards, and instructed Steve over comms to get his butt up to the kitchen, stat. While his interest had definitely been piqued by the _‘or I’ll have to come down there and get you myself, Esteban’_ bit of that request, his body had been quietly begging him for sustenance for about an hour, and the lure of food that didn’t come in a plastic wrapper was too strong.

When he steps out of the elevator, the smells from the kitchen hit him immediately. It’s something savoury and buttery, and Steve’s stomach growls his appreciation. Obediently, he follows his nose around the Memorial Wall and into the common area. It’s deserted save for his marine, standing at the stove wearing an apron that is clearly too small for his chest, and says ‘GRILL SERGEANT’ in bold letters. He’s got a handful of something in one hand, and a spatula in the other, poking at the griddle.

Steve’s smiling before he even realises it. When he does take stock of the fact that his mouth has curved up, his expression has gone soft, his heart is thudding and his entire demeanour has changed, it’s with quiet satisfaction, and a little bit of wonder. The man he was a year ago would have never dreamed of feeling this way again. Didn’t want to, actively tried to avoid it. Buried his hand so deep in the sand and his work that every time he looked around he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The Steve Cortez of a year ago would have never envisioned a reality wherein he would be on a midnight date with an almost obnoxiously handsome marine in a too-tight shirt and fatigues, feeling like his heart is on a string to heaven.

The Steve Cortez of a year ago would have been missing out on this. Steve feels bad for the guy.

Pulling up a stool, he takes a seat a short distance away from the stove. He’s close enough to run a hand across Vega’s shoulders in a brief hello. He gets a quick grin.

“Y’know, for a minute I thought you might actually want me to come down there and get you.”

“And pry me away from quality time with the Kodiak?” There’s a bowl of what might be blueberries on the counter; Steve steals two of them. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“Hah!” Vega’s laugh, and the cocky smile that comes with it, breathes extra life into the room. “Maybe, if there was actually something to be jealous _of_. The Kodiak can come step to me when she gets a pair of sweet guns like these.”

And because he’s James Vega, he manages to pull off a quick flex and a kiss to his biceps before he flips two pancakes onto a waiting plate. Steve shakes his head, chuckling quietly.

“You sure those things are up to code, Mr. Vega?”

“Oh most definitely. Home grown. Alliance issue. Got the looks and the power. All that good stuff.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He pilfers a couple more blueberries. The more he eats, the less sure he is that they’re blueberries, and not some asari equivalent, but they’re delicious. “I’d have to take a look under the hood, be the judge of that myself.”

And to Steve’s absolute delight, Vega starts blushing, the blood beating up under his bronze skin like a ship on fire. If anything, it only makes him look more handsome, and Steve grins. Vega talks a lot, and Steve is quite sure that he can back it up, but in the past few weeks, he’s been learning how easy Vega actually is to fluster when flirted with. Proper flirting, and not the thinly veiled courtship that they’d been engaged in for most of their time aboard the Normandy. Steve’s almost tempted to slip out his omnitool and snap a few photos. 

Vega starts pouring a new batch onto the griddle, rubbing hard at the back of his neck. He gives Steve a little side-eye, a bitten-lip look that’s twice as cute as the probably thinks it is.

“Yeah, well, you know. We could arrange that,” he says as he sprinkles more of the berries onto the pancakes.

“All in good time,” Steve says, and has to smile again at the thoughtful ‘when exactly?’ type look that crosses Vega’s face.

Whatever it is they’ve got here, it’s only a week or so old. Steve is comfortable, and Vega is comfortable, and they’re having a good time working it out together. It helps having a commander who’s been giving the single finger salute to Alliance regs from day one. Every day, the darkness around them grows deeper and colder, every day they put their lives on the line, every day might be their last, if the Reapers and Cerberus have anything to say about it. But having someone waiting for him and someone to wait for, having a tangible reason to fight, having someone who was sweet and smart and brave and a little bit of a dolt… it makes all the difference.

He reaches across to steal more blueberries, only to find that Vega has moved the bowl. He glares mildly, and gets a wink for his trouble.

“Pancakes, huh?” Steve says, resigning himself to wait when he finds that there are no other eatables worth stealing within reach. “At midnight?”

Vega snorts.

“Like you’re complaining. ‘Sides, breakfast foods are uh, kind of the only stuff I trust myself to do well.” He shrugs. “Cooking with mi abuela never lasted past seven thirty; she was a busy lady.”

Steve cups his chin in his palm, unable to resist a mischievous grin. “And a patient one, I imagine, with little Jimmy Vega as a student.”

“Yeah, I was a handful, I’ll give you that.” Vega’s eyes are on the stove but they’re filling up with remembrance, the kind that makes him chuckle softly. “But what can I say, she had that grandma magic. Kept me in check.”

“How old were you?”

“When I started hanging around her in the kitchen? Six, seven, something like that.”

Thinking of tiny Vega the sous-chef brings a little grin to Steve’s face. “At that age I was taking apart all the appliances in the house, driving my parents nuts.”

“Oh, I did my fair share of that, believe me.” He sprinkles a handful of berries onto the pancakes on the griddle, smiling as he does. “Not with mi abuela though. She’d tell me stories about growing up in Guadalajara while I was grating cheese or whatever, about all the mariachi bands and the restaurant her pops owned. I thought that was the coolest shit. She taught me how the make the perfect huevos rancheros and chilaquiles. During the summer she’d send me and my uncle down to the market for peaches or oranges or cherries or whatever was good, and we’d slice ‘em over pancakes, or make fruit salads. If I was _real_ lucky, there’d be granita later.”

He shuffles smoothly between the stove and the counter as he talks, flipping the pancakes and sliding them onto a plate, every so often popping a berry into his mouth. Steve often marvels at how graceful he can be for such a big man, and it definitely shows here. Sometimes, he’s a veritable battering ram of a human being, and sometimes, he’s this: a strapping, gentle culmination of lived experience and love.

Steve cups his chin in his palm, smiling.

“Sounds nice.”

“Yeah. It really was.”

Grandma Vega is gone now; Steve knows this from earlier conversations about loss, back when they were still getting to know each other down in the shuttle bay. It makes him feel a warm fondness, to think that Vega is sharing all that he learnt and loved with him.

“So, granita, huh?” Steve raises his brows teasingly. “Does this mean I can expect dessert later?”

Vega side-eyes him, a sly grin in place. “You propositioning me, Esteban?”

“No, no, not at all. Just wondering what level of food poisoning I should be looking forward to.” 

“Hey.” Vega brandishes the spatula at him gently. “Keep up the smack talk and see where it gets you, pendejo. I’ll give you a hint: hungry.”

“You’re all talk,” he drawls.

“Oh yeah? Try me.”

It’s easy, it’s relaxed, it’s sweet. They fall into the regular swing of their banter, pitching words back and forth until they’re both smiling and they can’t remember why. Steve feels the tension of the long day seeping out of his pores, word by word, after every gesture and every little look, until every other person in the universe fades into stardust and it’s just them, alone and content in the empty space. 

After all his posturing, Vega of course ends up fixing him a short stack with extra blueberries on top ( _‘only cause you’ve got a mean pair of baby blues’_ ) before finishing it off with syrup and brown butter. It’s definitely the most decadent thing he’s seen aboard the Normandy in some time, made all the more special because the hands that prepared it are right here, setting the plate in front of him, knuckling the back of his neck in a gesture that tickles more than Steve will admit, cleaning off a drop of syrup from the edge of his plate before sticking his finger into his mouth. Steve raises his brow a little at the last one, which sets Vega off blushing and blustering again, and all told, it’s the happiest he’s been all week.

Vega fixes himself a plate, and they walk across to the eating area. Before they sit down, Steve captures Vega by the wrist, and tugs him down for a soft, brief kiss. He feels the other man start against him, but it’s only temporary, and soon Vega is kissing back, making it as deep and long as he can get away with. James Vega can get away with a galactic heist then some on a good day, so it’s a minute or more before Steve pulls away, with pleasant, post-kiss tingles running up and down his neck.

Vega settles both their plates on the table, then cups Steve’s face in both hands to kiss him again, very softly on the mouth. That blush is threatening to creep back, but his eyes and lips are lit up with suggestion.

“Was wondering when I’d get you to break that stupid self-imposed ‘no kissing in communal areas’ rule.”

Steve rolls his eyes to hide his own smile. “It was a good rule.”

“Iunno, looks to me like it was a pretty dumb rule. Want me to show you why? Again?”

His big hands are cradling Steve’s waist, and he’s grinning like the cat that got the cream and the canary and came back for more. Steve tiptoes and pecks him on the nose, just to shut him up, then wriggles away and takes a seat.

“We’re officers, Mr. Vega. We’re supposed to lead by example,” Steve reminds him, picking up his fork.

“Exactly. How else are we gonna motivate Campbell and Westmoreland to stop standing around and kiss each other already? I mean, dios mio, the _tension_.”

Steve swats him on the arm, smiling.

“Okay, love guru. Are we gonna eat or what?”

“Hey man, after you.”

Vega watches him as he cuts into his stack. Steve would tease him about it, except then he puts the fork into his mouth, and he’s too busy groaning in appreciation. Grandma Vega had done _good_. He immediately dives in for another forkful, and Vega’s got this look on his face, like he wants to gloat, but he won’t. Miraculously.

“You know,” he says, cutting into his own stack, “I think this is the first time we’ve ever really, you know. Sat down for an actual meal together.”

He’s right, Steve considers. They’ve known each other months now, shared blood and battle and a fair amount of rations in the Kodiak, to and from a drop. They’d sorta shared a bite as a crew, back at Shep’s apartment after the whole clone debacle, and there’d been a few group outings where food was involved. But this is their first time alone, together. 

Steve smiles. Midnight, after a long day, good memories and the Normandy humming quiet and smooth around them. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

“You’re right.” He nudges Vega’s leg with his own, just as a point of contact, an excuse to touch. “It’s about time.”


End file.
